


The Lantern Holder

by nyctigamous, padthot (orphan_account)



Category: Glass (2019), Split (2016), Unbreakable (2000)
Genre: AU - Dennis only, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Angst, Bodyguard, Dissociation, F/M, Flashbacks, Fluff, Healing, Human Trafficking, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, PTSD, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Sexual Content, Witness Protection, no underage anything, slowburn, the slowest of burns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2019-12-27 03:47:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18296204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyctigamous/pseuds/nyctigamous, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/padthot
Summary: He's seen that look on her face before. He's seen it over a decade ago, in a forest in the middle of fall, shotgun cocked at his heart.Only this time, she's pulling the trigger.Casey escapes the grasp of her uncle by the inch of her life, only to find herself in more danger. She has information the law needs, so they put her away - two rooms of a motel, and a bodyguard at her side. This is the spiral, the deep-dive into an abyss and back; this is her journey into the light.





	1. Midnight Blues

**Author's Note:**

> This is a disclaimer. This work will contain details on past abuse, physical, emotional, and sexual, implied child abuse, and much more.
> 
> The piece is not an entirely accurate depiction of human trafficking, and it does not impose to be so. This is a work of fiction, but I beg of you to keep in mind that the issue in current day is still very much present and a dangerous threat to anyone. 
> 
> Please, if you feel someone you know may be a victim of human trafficking, refer to the link below to see some indicators, proper questions, and where to get help:
> 
> https://www.state.gov/j/tip/id/
> 
> The name of the work is meant to symbolize against the theft of human nature from a person's grasp. I do not mean any sort of cultural appropriation - instead, I'd like to celebrate the fight against slavery, while keeping in mind that modern slavery, sadly, is still a fact.
> 
> This work is a collaboration with the lovely @padthot, and it wouldn't be even half of what it is meant to be if it wasn't for her.

Her hands shake in tandem to her erratic breaths. It’s violent in nature, but subdued in its show, and Casey has trouble distinguishing one from the other. There’s an echo between the tremors and the exhales, an echo that makes her head feel hazy and her lungs hurt.

Her eyes trace the almost-perfect rim of the cup in her hands, the liquid inside pushing through its boundary, seeping into her hands with a gentle scorch, one that will leave her skin pink and tender. The stinging warmth, she feels, keeps her grounded, keeps her mind from floating through the walls of the room.  
  
An almost perfect circle, with a minuscule chip at its north, almost perfectly aligned, an almost perfect cup. It’s ceramic, old, she can tell - well loved at some point.

 

Breathing is still a concern, a painful push against her chest - but she tries.

 

Her eyes cast down to her shoes, to the carpeted floor beneath them. A carpet that lines four chipped, old-worn walls, paint stained and dulled by the sun. The walls crush her, pushing on her frame, but she fights it - as much as she can. She focuses on the darkness behind the window - midnight being far past the time, the delicate light of the stars pooling on the ground beneath them.

 

“Miss Cooke?”

 

The girl’s eyes snap to the source of the sound, settling on a grim, tired face.

 

_“Cooke, Cooke, you goddamn bastard-”_

 

“Casey.” Her voices feels other-wordly to her, but she swallows it like a thick gulp of glass and pushes the word out. The name, being stained as it is, doesn’t sit well with her anymore.

 

“Excuse me?” The man speaks to her slowly, diligently - it sounds like the safety pull of a shotgun before the making of a kill.

 

“Just.. Casey. Please.” There’s no pleading in her tone, but she knows there ought to be.

  
  
_“You be good to me now.”_

 

There’s no use in pleading when it doesn’t stop a storm. She knows it well enough there’s no debating with nature.

 

The room is not too small for six people to be in it - but it feels suffocating. Is that why breathing is hard?

 

Her eyes run over the men and women in the room. Two men and women clad in dark uniforms, one man in a less formal shirt. Five pairs of eyes stabbing her skin with their stares, focusing on her every movement, every tremor.

 

“Casey, I need you to calm down. Could you do that?”

 

She doesn’t feel right. Sick. There’s a soft ringing present in her ears - one that started after the shot. She still feels it somewhere, a phantom pain - as if it actually hit her, actually left her bleeding on the floor of the questioning room.

 

Her skin feels damp and she realizes her hands are shaking the liquid out. It doesn’t hurt or burn - the tea has settled into manageable temperature. The liquid drips down her knees.

 

Her breath hitches in her throat when she feels unfamiliar hands on hers, gently prying the cup from her grasp. She wants to flinch back from the touch, to react to it - but feels paralyzed, like a doe in headlights.

 

She can only stare at the man in the shirt as he settles the cup on the cupboard, returning to his spot against the wall.

 

She notices he’s the only that doesn’t look at her with dread in their eyes.

 

Casey closes her eyes to steady herself, and the image still burns in front of her. Steady, unyielding. He looks like a wall.

 

They’re right. She should calm down.

 

She counts her breaths as she would to stave the panic away, and looks at the officer kneeling in front of her. The girl nods at him, as firm as she can, but the movement is stuttered. He nods back at her.

 

* * *

 

 

Dennis suspects it immediately after he sets his eyes on the girl. Her small frame, shivering and trembling, amethyst bruises shining at the edges of the many layers of her clothing.

 

It’s the way her eyes dart cautiously. To the environment, to their hands, to their postures. Not to faces or eyes or expressions.

 

He can tell she is careful and vigilant - he can tell the behavior was molded and snapped into her.

 

Dennis has his suspicion proven when she speaks. She answers the questions about her deceased parents unfalteringly, sees her move into non-reaction, into a carefully built blankness.

 

She observes her fate changing without flinching, but tenses as any of the officers move towards her.

 

Yet through the void of her essence, he can see it - the slight way her fist clenches, the gentle pitch rising as she’s asked of next of kin.

 

“My uncle.” She says, tone-deaf yet he can see the darkness pooling behind her irises. It’s not tears, it’s not tension - it’s a pure void, one he’s seen in the mirror so many times, himself.

 

There’s a maddening moment where he feels that he’s looking at a reflection right now.

 

“Do you live with him? Should we contact him for you?” The question is poised carefully, but he can see it sink into her, face furrowing.

 

“He’s the one I took the cards from.” What she says is a fact, one at which she settles back into her facade.

 

The silence is thick as her words settle into the air, and is only broken when the man kneeling before her sighs.

 

He sees the control she fights to have, and he sees the way her shell starts to crack.

 

* * *

 

She reminds herself, again and again, there is no use in fighting against nature.

 

She wishes she held the cup in her hands again. She wishes she could feel its cool porcelain push against her skin as she sinks her fingers into the feeling, wishes it would shatter against her, the shards breaking her, opening her up.

 

She wishes the cup would break in her place and that would be that.

 

_She pushes herself against the doorframe and feels her heart beat violently against the confinement of her ribs. He’s looking at her, towering over her, mere feet away, a predator in his sheer size._

 

She is surprised when the officer stands, backs away a few feet. Are they done with her?

 

The man clears his throat, looks around the room. His feet are open and far apart, hands at his sides - so he must not see her as a threat.

 

“Casey,” the way he calls her name sticks to her skin, but she listens intently, ready for his next question, ignoring the screaming voices in the back of her head. “We’re going to let you get some rest before continuing this. You’ve had a rough night, you look tired.”

 

The man looks at her expectantly, silent, waiting, so she does what she’s taught to do - she nods, eager in response, ready to abide.

 

Then, he speaks again, but his eyes are not on her this time.

 

“This man,” the officer points at the man who took the cup from her hands, “is Dennis Crumb. He will be your handler.” He must have noticed the confused scowl on her face. “He will stay here, and protect you.”

 

“So like a bodyguard.” The words escape her before she can think, and she scolds herself for them.

 

“Yes.” It is Dennis, then, that speaks. Her eyes dart to him, startled by his voice. The beat of silence between them feels like a passing eternity - and she takes in the difference of him between every soul in the room. There is no pity. No fake demeanor. He’s watching her, calculating her, and is a complete opposite of her uncle’s fake smiles.

 

She doesn’t return his scowl, but feels her shoulders ease out of their tension.

 

“What happened at the station,” the officer speaks again, looking back at her, “will not happen again. We will make sure of that.”

 

She blinks at him, letting the words sink in. They do not.

 

“That’s a promise, Casey. Now get some rest. The medical examiners should be here by dawn."

 

Her lungs clear at the same pace as the room does. Slow, deliberate, careful steps pushing past her, each face disappearing after another, until she’s alone in the room. She notices she’s still shaking, but her mechanical breathing is not fighting against her anymore.

 

The girl crawls onto the bed, settling right into the middle.

 

 _“Don’t you dare, don’t you_ **_fucking dare-”_ **

 

She clutches her knees against her chest and forces air into her lungs.

 

_The bullet reverberates through her bones as it shoots through her - an inch away from her._

 

She looks at the cup on the cupboard, seeing its chipped side poised straight at her. She wonders if it’s a message.

 

_“Casey, dear Casey, honey, I will keep you safe.”_

 

She doesn’t notice when the black starts to get replaced by purple. She doesn’t know it soon seeps into scarlet.

 

_“You just listen to me, Caseybear.”_

 

There’s a knock on the door. Distantly, she can hear birds chirping.


	2. Filth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The medical examiners arrive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This.. was insanely difficult to write.
> 
> Warning for sexual and physical abuse references.

There are times when Casey wonders how well she could play dead if she were an animal.

 

Their pristine white clothes cling to their methodical frames with an itching attitude of taunting, prickling her skin with a sheen of cold sweat. The clothing folds and forms around their movements, beckoning to follow and to listen.

 

She doesn’t breathe when she looks at them. Doesn’t move an inch.

 

She thinks she’d be good at it. Seeping into the bedding of cold moss, controlling the tremors under the hot breath of a predator.

 

And if she’d be good at the bed of a forest, she’ll do well here, as well.

 

She wills herself - forces it - not to flinch when she observes them work, spread out their instruments as a torturer’s exposition. Tells herself her breathing isn’t ragged when she notices they have brought a change of clothes.

 

Tells herself that her act is a matter of life or death, but by the time she sees them spread out a large sheet of paper on the floor, she realises that if she were playing dead, now would be the time to rise up and flee for her life.

 

_ “Oh, Caseybear, you would never-” _

 

They ask about her medical history. Brunt force traumas. A recountance of assaults.

 

All questions she has trouble answering.

 

“You don’t have to worry. We will check you, but first you need to take your clothes off. You can stop whenever you want or feel the need to.”

 

The doctor and her assistant are both stern and stand tall, but she can sense the soft breath of something farther from a predator - something soft, an unlikeness, a flaw, an imperfection.

 

_ The officer is tall, his frame towering over her with a long-cast shadow, shoulders unbendable, unyielding, unbreakable.  _

 

_ Yet the way his eyes cast over her in thick compassion scares her more than his posture ever could. _

 

Casey blinks at the woman’s words. She feels there’s a purpose in them, something that’s supposed to snake into her and make her bend to their will, break herself to the tune of their flutes.

 

The look on their faces and gentle demeanors confuse Casey; softness and wariness mixing in thick pools, but such things have never been directed towards her in honesty. 

 

Sugar sweet smiles were a means to an end and while she knows the doctors must be gentle, she can't shake the feeling of dread that comes with their understanding.

 

_ He sits her down at a metal table in a tiny grey room. Four chairs, one table. The gentle whisper of the air conditioning. _

 

_ She flinches when he grasps her wrist. The touch is gentle and it sears against her skin. _

 

She can do that. She’s learnt to do that. To her, it’s just another way to play dead.

 

_ “Who gave these to you?” She pretends to hear the bite her uncle had in the man’s voice, but the pretend cracks and crumbles at her feet.  _

 

_ Her bones feel heavy in her, burdened with the answers she learnt to give on command, and there’s a jolt of lightning at the knowledge that they’re obsolete now. _

 

_ “My uncle.” _

 

She steps onto the sheet. Her hands have already given up on shaking; buttons and zippers giving way all too freely for her. 

 

_ “Does he hurt you?” _

 

_ She doesn’t answer him, but he doesn’t let go of her bruise-shapen wrist. _

 

She pretends gloved hands running across her body are gusts of wind. She pretends the caution and mindfulness in their touch are a swift and beautiful lie.

 

_ “Do you have more?” _

 

_ Does it matter if she answers? He knows the answer already. He can see it underneath the cloth that’s slid down. _

 

_ “We’ll have a doctor check you. They won’t hurt you, and you can tell them to stop at any time.” _

 

She imagines the thick grime they write down at each discovered scar or bruise. She doesn’t let out a sound as they tend her fresh cuts. She answers short and curt to the origins of each one.

 

She pretends she’s playing dead as they examine the bruises between her thighs.

 

They ask her to examine further. She gives her consent. 

 

She pretends the swabbing and the prodding and the pressing are not happening to her, but to someone else. To a body, a soulless husk. Playing dead.

 

She’s used to this by now.

 

“When was the last assault?” She can hear dread dripping off the examiner’s voice, and realises it’s unshed tears that have been stinging her eyes the whole time. She wonders, if she let them free, if they’d leave a trail behind her, washing away the dirt she can feel on her skin.

 

The woman asks again when Casey doesn’t answer.

 

The fabric of the new clothing drags against her skin in agonizing slowness, and she knows she can’t pretend through this one.

 

“The night before.” Casey wonders if her voice had always sounded like that.

 

“Casey.” Her eyes snap immediately to the woman, alarm rising in her blood. The medic’s tone is painted, painted in heavy layers of caution, of the same imperfection that echoed in the girl’s bones. 

 

Whatever comes next, she knows, won’t be good.

 

“When did you last menstruate?”

 

The silence is thick, its pitch high in her ears, weight difficult to bear as it settles on her shoulders.

 

There’s a chasm. Deep, endless, dark. A pit, right beneath her feet. She feels like she’s falling, but she’s not.

 

She feels like she’s been holding her breath the entire time from the moment light touched the horizons behind her window, and it’s slipping out of her in blows that fight for a chance to explore in her chest.

 

She doesn’t remember. She didn’t take notice. She never really did, it was never regular, never on time, and she doesn’t remember and they’re looking at her with gnawing pity in their eyes and it burns and sears and scorches her, heavy with implication and  _ understanding _ and  _ what do they ever know of fear? _

 

She flinches when the doctor touches her.

 

There’s no way she can play dead anymore.

 

They take her blood without another word. They tell her she will get the results for pregnancy and any STDs in a few days.

 

She can see they want to say more, but their mouths close when her eyes meet theirs.

 

_ “Come on, Caseybear. Let’s play animals together.” _

 

* * *

 

There’s a part of him that feels unyielding and immovable, and there’s a part that is drinking and melding into the air of the room behind the closed door.

 

He stands watch to protect her. Her, the girl, shaking and vigilant, empty and full. He listens, intently, for anything and everything, and he feels that if he could just hear her breathing, his instinct would be to follow it, repeat it, until he feels and understands her fully.

 

There are voices. Muffled questions and muffled answers. She doesn’t cry, doesn’t sob, or break. Not once. Her voice is devoid, trained.

 

He’s twitching. Fingers spasming against his biceps, breathing long since lost its evenness. He notices it far too late, succumbing to the realisation, to the welcoming of red prickling at the nape of his neck, to the back of his head.

 

Images flood him in a stream that relents to him, trickling one by one like unexpected guests. Anger pools along with them, each forming a long thread behind the other. Memories. Calls, beckoning. Voices.

 

A name.

 

The bastard that hurt her walks free while she’s pushed into a cage. He’s cut her wings to his liking, pushed and bent her bones back, until they healed wrong, until she’s not able to use them anymore. He’s bent and broken  _ her _ , until there was nothing left of her anymore.

 

This girl speaks the language his mother had written all over him fluently, and the thought of that makes him sick.

 

Yet it burns in him, the image of her, an image so wrong and broken, and he knows, he  _ knows _ he shouldn’t see it that way. He’s walked in her shoes for so many years, he’s seen the pity in the eyes of strangers the way she sees them right now, and he knows that neither of them are broken. They are simply  _ hurt.  _

 

His scars itch,  the phantom pain of a burn pressing against his skin by a ghostly touch.

 

Yet it fights him. It goes against him. A single fish, raised in a pond, fighting against the vicious stream of a river that’s been flowing for a millennia. There’s a strand of protectiveness in him, and instinct to take her under his wing, shield her from the scary world.

 

He can’t erase the image of how broken she looked. Can’t stop himself from wondering - hoping - if there’s any of her left.

 

There’s a flash, for a mere second, and he sees himself back in that house, back in that room, back with his mother. A flash of seeing a reflection, him bruised and broken, trying, failing, broken,  _ moving. _

 

The image rocks him, shattering, and then it doesn’t.

 

Empathy and sympathy claw at each other inside of his heart, and it’s a fight that is hypocritical at its best. 

 

He tries to reason, to remind himself, to  _ breathe _ , but all he can see before himself is the deep purple shining from beneath her layers.

 

He sees too much of him in her.

 

He winces at the thought, and at the reminder of the shame she is going through. The coming of eye to eye of what another’s hands have done to her.

 

Dennis snaps at the thought, releasing the tension in his shoulders. He moves from his spot, the movement swift and controlled, but only he knows - it was pure instinct, driven by flashbacks that make him feel that dust is collecting on his skin again.

 

He leaves the spot at her door, reaches for his bag. The alcohol sanitation cloths are easy to find, and it’s the least her can do for her.

 

When the door opens, he sees her wrapped in shadows, staring in meek fright ahead of herself, alert, like a doe ready to jump away. Legs pulled tightly together, in clothes that seem to fall on her small frame. She’s trying to keep a straight face, but she’s tugging on her shirt too much to make it believable.

 

He knows she feels like she could be under a stream of water and still feel like it’s not her place. He knows, he’s seen this too many times, and knows what she feels.

 

He knows she feels dirty, even if she isn’t.

 

Dennis fights himself as ghosts of memories push against him, tearing and clawing at the walls he built, threatening to crash them, to spill over, to take him back into the depths. All, at the sight of her.

 

But he’s immovable. Unyielding. He berates himself, quickly, curtly, for not holding it together, not like he should. His job is a trigger, always has been, purely out of its nature, but the safety is usually on. 

 

With her, it’s sliding free.

 

Her eyes are tinted red when she accepts the sanitary cloth. Her gratitude is soft and low, very much like the soft click of the door when she shuts herself back in.

 

* * *

 

Casey lay on the bed, counting her breathing. She feels blank, and not - she feels, something.

 

She’s staring at the cloth she was given, aching to use it, aching to clean herself. She doesn’t feel right. 

 

She doesn’t dare, though. She lay there, staring at it, speaking to it in a silent language only known between her and it. There’s an apology, just as silent, when she reaches her hand to the cloth.

 

She will dirty it, and once it’s done, she will be thrown away alongside with it.


	3. The Right Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The detectives come. Casey recognises a familiar face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots.. and lots of talking here. Hope it's not too much, despite it being rather obligatory.
> 
> Beware trigger warnings.

Her eyes glaze over the white, tense skin around the knuckles of her fists. They stop at her right hand, sliding over the small, crescent-shaped scar on one of the knuckles. The pale, raised skin is soft yet rigged at its edges, the shape and form snaking around her, pulling her under.

 

_ The shards pool at her feet. The break was curt, sharp, and instant - the mirror gave in to her force as effortlessly as she had to it.  _

 

_ Through the parts that stayed resilient and intact, she can see the marks on her skin in the reflection. Red, blue, purple. Old and new mixing into one, gnawing at her from the periphery of her body. _

 

_ She looks down to her hand, balled into a fist, shaking from the vigor. The skin has broken. Scarlet is dripping down. _

 

They shake, shake even when she’s the one in control, and she tries -  _ tries, for once  _ \- to ease it, to stop it. She’s slipping out of the control she’s never really had, losing herself to the strings that keep pulling her apart. She can feel herself sinking, deep, deep down into an abyss, darker than she’s ever seen.

 

It envelopes her like a mother’s embrace that she’s never had.

 

_ “When did you last menstruate?” _

 

She swallows thickly to fight the ferocious pulse beating in her throat. It’s erratic, painful, and try as she might, she can’t push against it - can’t fight it as it sponges in her every attempt at breathing, tearing her lungs apart.

 

She’d scream if she could, but her mouth won’t open.

 

_ “Baby, I love you, you’re so-” _

 

No. No, no, no. Casey’s fingers push into her scalp, burrowing in the tangles of her hair, shielding her eyes from the light. She bites her lip and tastes blood, sickly-sweet iron dancing at the edge of her senses.

 

This isn’t happening. This won’t be happening. She can feel dread gripping at the edges of her mind, dipping it in black ink, pushing it further, and further, and further, until there’s little light left, until she’s left a gaping hole, choking on the viscous liquid in her lungs.

 

There’s a flash, an image, a child-like scream in her ears, and she sees a baby, a newborn, screaming its existence into the world, grasping at the air around it, fighting for a chance at life. It’d look similar to him even then, even as its features aren’t even close to forming, even as she can’t fully see the color of its eyes. She bites her lip harder, pushing her hand at the image as if it was thick mist in front of her, and bile rises up her throat, stinging in acidity, punishing her for the thought alone.

 

She’d hate it. She knows she would. And she’d hate herself for it, more than she ever has, more than she thought would be possible. 

 

_ “You’re mine, Casey. It’s just you and me. Always.” _

 

She feels her eyes brim and burn with tears, but her cheeks stay dry.

 

_ Fear curls down the curve of her spine as he forces himself into her. It’s always like this, always a tear, a flash, pain forgotten amidst shame and terror, guilt at being defeated. _

 

_ He ravages her like an animal, and in the end she always feels like one. _

 

She’d tried. Tried to get on birth control, tried to stop it, tried to escape from feeling like filth. He wouldn’t allow it. 

 

She was at the hands of his mercy, a tool for his every whim, and a fragment of her thinks some part of him wanted this. Wanted her branded by him, like a well-prized horse, forever.

 

He’d likely have thrown the child away, afterwards.

 

Or sold it.

 

* * *

 

What feels like hours pass, and the panic slowly ebbs away. Casey feels her body weaken, settle into exhaustion as the adrenaline passes out of her blood, dissipating into little tremors at the tips of her fingers.

 

The images pass, so do the thoughts. She sinks into a void, into non-reaction. It’s a second home to her, her salvation; the reason she’s still alive.

 

A curt series of knocks disturb her, pushing her back into sensory awareness. She doesn’t startle at the knocks, but gets onto her feet in an instant, ready for anything to come.

 

It’s Dennis that opens the door, leading two uniformed men behind him. She recognizes one of them immediately - it’s the face of the officer she met at the station the night prior.

 

The one who looked at her bruised skin.

 

The three men are silent and stern as they enter the room; the officers finding places comfortable for them near the foot of the bed, Dennis turning to leave towards the door.

 

He casts a look at her, abrupt and calculative, and halts in his step, frowning.

 

She doesn’t notice she was staring until he turns to settle against the wall, instead, returning her gaze, the look in his eyes unwavering.

 

She looks away.

 

Casey tells herself it doesn’t phase her, but she is glad that there’s at least someone in the room who isn’t busy giving her looks of pity.

 

She watches as one of the officers observes the bodyguard, tensing his hands, spreading his feet. There’s cold calculation in the man’s eyes, appraisal and searching, flicking from one place to another in a methodical motion.

 

Casey wonders what he sees. She wonders if he sees danger. Wonders if she should, too.

 

"Before we start, i want you to know he doesn't have to be here. He's not going to he angry if you want some privacy." His voice is steady and, she can tell, careful. There’s a sense that overwhelms her - one that tells her she’s in the place of a wary animal. “You won't be in trouble if you want him to wait outside.”

 

The man’s steely eyes pin her down with patience, and she wets her lips before answering. She feels as if she were under a scope.

 

“That’s alright. He can stay.” Her voice sounds distant to her ears, but she’s used to that by now. Nothing feels right since she left through the doorway of her old home.

 

She closes the distance between them, setting down on the foot of the bed, looking at the officers. For a few moments, the only sound echoing through the walls is the soft creak of the springs.

 

The lock that the man has on her keeps her pinned and uncomfortable, but she can tell it’s not predatory. She’s seen enough of that to know how it really looks.

 

“My name is David Dunn. I’m a detective. We met before, at the station.”

 

“Yes.” The memory sits on the surface of the thick and viscous water of that night, barely afloat, yet barely sinking.

 

“This is my partner, Richard Alleyn. We need to ask you some questions. Is that okay?”

 

He makes it sound like she has a choice. She’s sure he doesn’t understand, that’s the only reason she’s here in the first place.

 

Safety and survival weren't a priority when she leapt into the tides waves. She had long battled and fought to breathe, panting with the mental exertion it took to keep her head above water--but that wasn't why she left. 

 

She nods at him, knowing full well the sharpness of any words she speaks in response would be as razor sharp as a dagger. She doesn't trust herself to soften the blow of them.

 

She watches as he eases his shoulders, throwing a look at his partner. He keeps his hands at his sides, but they twitch, ever so lightly, and she can tell he wants to cross his arms against his chest.

 

She wonders why he doesn’t do it.

 

“What is your full name?” There is that tone again, the careful stalking, as if she’d startle at any moment, as if she’d run away.

 

“Cassandra Caroline Cooke. But it’s just Casey.” Her lips form around her name in a methodical movement, finding no comfort in its fullness. Nobody ever called her that. Not even her father.

 

David nods at her answer. From the corner of her eye, she sees his partner take out a notepad, soft scribbling of pen on paper filling the room.

 

“How old are you?”

 

“Seventeen.”

 

The scribbling is starting to grate her. She blocks it out, focusing on the man in front of her. She notices him tensing more, curling and uncurling his fingers into a fist.

 

“You mentioned your parents are deceased?”

 

She doesn’t flinch at the question. Her muscles are locked tight under the ruse of control.

 

“Yes.” She hopes they don’t ask her about John again. The man nods at her.

 

“You also mentioned it’s just you and your uncle?” 

 

He eyes her warily as she hides her disappointment with an inhale.

 

“Yes. I don’t have any other family.”

 

“You live with him, correct? Was it just you and him?”

 

She nods, unsure what importance the questions poise.

 

“Okay.” The man breathes, seemingly more to himself than to her, and reaches his hand for the inside of his coat. He takes out sheets of paper, folded in a manner that’s far from neat, and passes them to her. “Do you recognise these?”

 

“Yes. These are..” She pushes down a stinging memory down her throat. “The ID cards I brought you.”

 

_ He circles the card between his fingers, his smile sticky with greed and satisfaction. _

 

_ The little blood near the photograph shines in the light, the sheen a sickly dull copper. _

 

“Do you recognise the girls?” Silent anticipation trickles down his even voice, and she can tell this question is important. 

 

Silence settles over them as she looks through the photographs.

 

“Not these ones. Some of the others, though.” She focuses her memory, replaying the night, remembering her shaking hands as she blindly grabbed a handful of cards. “I’m not sure how many I managed to take.”

 

“How many others do you think there were?”

 

She looks up at him. His eyes seem darker now, more focused. He’s forgotten all about not spooking her into fleeing.

 

“A lot. I can’t tell you how many.” She bites her lip, racking numbers in her mind. “Several dozen, at least. Double digits. As far as I saw.”

 

“Can you remember how long ago you saw them?”

 

“The girls?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Against herself, she frowns, thinking. Time was a concept she usually didn’t think about - it always slipped through her, whether she wanted it or not. 

 

“I think the last one I’ve seen.. Probably a month ago.”

 

She gives him an apologetic look for not being able to be more concise. She’s not sure if he notices.

 

The man nods, taking the papers from her hands. His breathing is steady and controlled - Casey follows in its stead. 

 

Her eyes dart to the bodyguard for a split second, but run back home when she sees him just as unmoving. The sight makes her straighten her back.

 

“So how did you get to the station?”

 

The question catches her off guard. Is he asking about transport? Or motive? Her hands grip her knees, breathing quickening just a smidge, just enough for only her to notice.

 

Is he asking why she hadn’t come sooner?

 

“I.. it was late, I wasn't feeling well. It felt like something snapped in me, I wasn't.. thinking very well." She pauses, trying to steady her breathing. The memory sits on her eyes and she can’t blink it away. "I knew where he kept the ID cards, I thought they'd be the best evidence. So I took them. And I brought them here. To the station, I mean.”

 

She bores her eyes into him, waiting for any response. Her shoulders ease as he nods, following along.

 

"Did he see you? Leaving."

 

She swallows the sight of John’s eyes before hers. "Yes."

 

"Did he say anything? Do anything? Try to stop you?"

 

"He yelled at me, but I, I didn't.. I just went. Through the door, and out." She knew if she didn’t, it’d be over. All of it. All of her.

 

"And you ran to the police station."

 

"Yes."

 

"Do you remember what the time was?"

 

There’s that time again. She can’t help it when she furrows her brow, counting, recounting, trying to pinpoint it.

 

"Um. Seven? Eight? I wasn't.. very aware of the time, I'm sorry."

 

"It’s okay. Did you notice anything odd? Anyone following you, any cars?"

 

The road from her foreign home to the station blurs before her. It was already dark by then, but it wasn't that. She wasn’t thinking. She was fleeing.

 

“I.. didn’t notice much. At all.” She sounds unsure and she hates it, but there is no other way about it.

 

He nods at her, though, patience shining through again. It’s surprising to her, but she doesn’t dwell on it.

 

The man takes out another paper sheet from his inner pocket.

 

"I’m going to show you a photo. Can you tell me if you recognise the person in the picture?"

 

Casey nods at him as he unfolds the picture. When he uncovers it for her, her breath hitches in her throat.

 

_ She waits patiently, silently, unmovingly. The tea before her is gradually losing temperature, and it will continue to do so even as it goes completely untouched. _

 

_ The door opens, startling her. She realises she’s spaced out again, following the harsh curve of the rim of the cup. _

 

_ The man is not the one that lead her to this room, but she feels danger the moment she sets her eyes on him. Her senses scream at her as she sees his arms tensing, hands curling around his hip. _

 

_ She’s under the table seconds before the shot echoes through the walls. _

 

“That’s.. The man who attacked me. In the station. Isn’t it?” Her eyes flick from the photograph to David, then back to the sheet of paper.

 

“Did you see him before entering the station?” He doesn’t answer her, but she’s too wary to pry the question back in.

 

“No. I don’t think so.” She answers him truthfully, the face a light blur in her mind. There’s a question forming, a nagging beckoning, and it slips out of her before she can even think twice about it. “Why did he do it?”

 

He looks at her, thoughts twirling behind his eyes. Calculations. Assessments. 

 

“We don’t know yet.” He says, voice thick with something intangible, something she can’t wrap her mind around. “But we’re going to find out.”

 

She can see him release tension in his hands after she nods. The photograph is folded back into his pocket, almost carelessly. He shifts his weight on his feet.

 

“Do you remember coming into the station?” The way he forms certain question, as if they’re neat little stacks of shapes and colors, designed to snake their way into a person, is starting to grate her.

 

She shoves that feeling down and focuses on the man.

 

“I.. I do?” Her tone pitches, a question in her mind. How could she not?

 

Then again, it wouldn’t be the first time her memory fails her.

 

“I guess you'll remember the tea too. Sorry about that, it's because of the budget.” His smile is sheepish but she can see his hands at his sides, his feet open to her. His expression doesn’t reach his body, and she frowns, but nods all the same.

 

She waits for the following question.

 

“How about we take a break? Give you a minute to collect yourself.” He tenses again, and Casey doesn’t understand why. She feels her shoulders straighten against her will. “Would you like something to drink?” He’s wary.

 

She shakes her head. Throws a glance at the bodyguard, seeing him watching her. Observing.

 

She thinks it’s worry that prickles the nape of her neck, but it’s not it. She wonders, with a tinge of overwhelming, if he sees what she sees. If he captures danger and weakness before they strike him, like she does; if he sees the corner before he is trapped in it.

 

So far, it’s been her only way of survival.

 

The break passes by her in a blur. There’s words passed, soft murmurs, the sounds of steps. Dennis doesn’t move from his place. Neither does Casey.

 

She doesn’t phase out. She’s ready the moment David’s fingers twitch. 

 

Her eyes are on his the moment he turns to her. His sigh is subtle and controlled, but it’s there, present, curling around his frame, his body so much more tense than it was before stopping.

She thinks he’s been preparing for something, and it gnaws daggers at the pit of her stomach.

 

She knows she is right the moment he speaks.

 

“I need to ask you about those marks.” His voice is slow, deliberately gentle, but it doesn’t stop the violent push in her throat. “Who gave them to you?"

 

_ “Do you have more?” _

 

_ She shoves the shame and guilt into the depths of her mind, but they’re louder and stronger than she is.  _

 

Casey winces. The memory burns her, burns her more when the man who asked her that is before her.

 

She’s dreaded that question for all of her life, and it slipped out of him like it was the most natural thing ever.

 

“My uncle.” She repeats to him, her tone the same as the night before. Locked, tight. They won’t get more out of her.

 

Darkness pools in his eyes, a slow, light trickle against the light. She casts down her gaze to her hands.

 

Controlled breathing. Manual. In and out.

 

"Is this the first time?" She doesn’t look at him anymore, but she can feel it - the gentle construction, the delicate control. It doesn’t help. Nothing does.

 

“No.”

 

"Do you remember the first time?"

 

_ The blade breaks through her skin effortlessly. It’s like it doesn’t even try to fight the invasion. _

 

_ Why should she? _

 

She closes her eyes. Tries to steady her heart. 

 

She’s used to this. Why is she afraid?

 

_ “I’ll tell your dad you’re not being nice.” _

 

“That's okay.” His voice is calm, low in her ears. “It's happened for a long time then?"

 

She breathes out a shaky exhale as the memory lets go of her.

 

“Yes.”

 

The scribbling catches her attention again. She focuses on it, trying to evade the rising waters.

 

“The doctors found scars and burns. Can you tell me who gave you those?"

 

She looks back at the man. She can’t read his expression anymore.

 

“My uncle.”

 

“Has he hurt you any other way?”

 

It’s sharp. Curt. Like a blade, she thinks, exactly like one. Is that why it blanks her mind? Did it cut through her thoughts, leaving her void?

 

She doesn’t notice her breaths losing pace. She glances at Dennis, absently, almost longingly, takes in his unyielding form. Shoulders straight, arms against his chest. 

 

She straightens her back, puts both feet flat on the ground. She doesn’t notice as she mimics him, but it gives her the courage to speak.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

She holds her breath while he sighs. She holds her ground when he looks straight at her.

 

“Have you been hurt sexually?”

 

She grits her teeth. Pushes her mind into blankness. Then nods.

 

“More than once?”

 

Another nod.

 

“A long time?”

 

“Yes.” The word pushes out of her despite her own will for it not to, and it surprises her enough to almost make her flinch.

 

They both let the moment settle. David, because he wills it to, Casey, because she never has a choice.

 

"Did anyone else hurt you?"

 

There’s a flash. Laughter, hands. The violent abruption at the sight of a gun.

 

"No. He wouldn't let them. My uncle, I mean."

 

There’s a pause filled with nothing but breathing. She watches, silently, as David’s hands curl into a fist.

 

"Were they his friends, or strangers?" It uncurls. “Or people he knew?”

 

She feels herself frown, turning the question in her mind. She never quite understood what they were to him. She always watched, mouth shut tight, observed, but never truly pinpointed what was going on in the mind of her uncle. 

 

Maybe she didn’t try hard enough.

 

Maybe it’s for the better.

 

"I think they were both. Closer to his colleagues.. or something like that." The frown doesn’t leave her, and she tries, with difficulty, to explain herself. "Uncle John doesn't like being alone that much. So he usually wasn't."

 

"Did people come to see him? Or did he go out to see them?"

 

"He did both. Sometimes he'd take me with him."

 

_ Dirty corners and loud yelling and the excruciating scratch of the bed frame against the wall above- _

 

"To visit friends?" His look is pointed straight into her, and she can feel the space between her shoulders tensing. "Or coworkers at work?"

 

“What are you asking?”

 

He frowns and looks head on again, straight at her.

 

"I’m asking if he was visiting friends, or if it was business."

 

_ He stands at gunpoint and laughs, the shrill of it chilling her to the point. These men wave metal as if it was a funny piece of a toy. _

 

_ “You’re in for a treat, Cooke. Get her out of here.” _

 

She blinks at the officer, tries to collect herself. In and out. In and out

 

_ “Ease your tits, she’s just a pet.” _

 

"Usually not business. But I'm not sure they considered him a friend in any case."

 

She grits her teeth just like she did back then.

 

"Do you know what their business was?"

 

"Drugs. Guns. And, um. The girls." She pauses, unsure how to explain herself, unsure how to explain what they  _ did. _ "The girls they.. Take."

 

"Just girls?" There’s deliberate carefulness again, and this time, she’s glad for it. Their faces haunt her, sear her, each left her marked in a way no human should.

 

She nods. "Yes. Teens, usually." Trusting, fearing, they all mixed into one in the end. "Ones that are easy to distract."

 

The words settle in her stomach with a line of acid around them, and she wishes she swallowed them down, instead. They churn in her as David frowns at her.

 

"What do you mean? Easy to distract?"

 

_ “You distract them, Casey. Talk their ear off. Become their friend, make them let loose, then take them to the back and the rest is our job.” _

 

_ She feels the bitter bile in the back of her throat, and thinks, for a flash, about the shotgun he keeps under his table. _

 

"They.. need to be confused. They ask less questions when they're distracted. They, um. Don't look where they're taken to."

 

She thinks a panicked bird resides in her chest as she watches the officer’s face change, form into an expression she can’t read. Sees him close it off, form into a wall of non-reaction, of deliberate void.

 

"How do you know?"

 

Her breathing is shallow and she can’t control it anymore. Casey closes her eyes from his controlled facade, choices spinning before her, each worse than the last one.

 

_ The dull sheen of copper, stinging her in the light, coating the card, shimmering- _

 

"He taught me how to. Tried to. My uncle."

 

Her throat feels dry and it’s a stark contrast to her eyes.

 

_ “Do you understand, Casey? You get ready. We start tomorrow.” _

 

_ It’s loaded. She knows it is. It’ll be just a flash. _

 

He’s taught her for weeks. He taught her what to say, how to act, how to smile, how to laugh so the girls would trust her. She felt sick, sicker than she ever has, sick and full and dull with the realisation of what has been going around her.

 

She shouldn’t have waited so long. She should have known there was no escape from it.

 

She could take it, what he did to her. It was only her. She was nothing. A void, an emptiness, much like one in her mind as he convulsed above her, hand on her throat.

 

But when the realisation hit her, she knew there was no way out anymore.

 

"I didn't.. I refused."  _ Her hands shake as she grabs the cards. This is the last fucking drop. Faces flash before her, scared, pleading, and she’s done, she’s done, she’s fucking done- _ "I left because I refused to."

 

She curses the way her voice shakes, but knows of no way to fortify it. Not with her walls falling to her feet.

 

"You did the right thing by leaving," there’s a tinge in his voice that she doesn’t recognise, but it sounds, distantly, like her father would. "That was brave. It took guts."

 

She just hopes he can’t see the tears pooling in her eyes.

 

She can only nod in return, and he nods back at her. Shifts his weight again, clears his throat.

 

"When did you find the cards?"

 

She finds she doesn’t understand the question again.

 

"What do you mean?"

 

"Did you find them the night you left? There’s no wrong answer." The last part is haste, wary, carefulness slipping.

 

_ He adds each and every one lovingly, with a tune and a grin. _

 

"Oh. No, no, he.. he collects most of them, they're.. something like trophies." She never knew someone with buck fever could have such a ferocious thirst for blood. "He's never secretive about them, either. I saw where he put them below the drawer as some sort of sick collection, so I knew where they were." She pushes at the memories harder than they push at her, until they give, until they reside. "I'm sorry, I didn't answer your question. I don't know. He started collecting them a while ago."

 

It's been sitting on her for so long, she's just glad it's pouring out of her. It's a poison, and one she won't allow herself to steep in. For years she's been steeped in this poison and she's tired of it.

 

"Have you met any of them? The girls. Or.. have you been there when a new one has.. come in?"

 

"I've met some of them. Briefly. Very briefly." Too briefly to know who they were, but long enough for them to haunt every single one of her dreams.

 

Scribbling, breathing. It’s the little things that keep her tied to this room, to the floor beneath her feet.

 

"Casey, I need to ask you some questions, but I want you to know you're not in trouble. Is that okay? Would you like a break first?"

 

She grips her knees in an iron grasp, but shakes her head. It’s okay. She’s okay.

 

She’ll finish what she’s here for.

 

“It’s okay.”

 

He doesn’t look convinced, she sees that much. He shifts, uneasy, tense, casts a look to the bodyguard. She doesn’t follow his gaze. He gives in after she doesn’t move a single muscle on her face.

 

She inhales sharply as soon as he opens his mouth, ready.

 

"You said you refused to help, and I believe you, but were you taken anywhere a girl might have been taken?"

 

_ The room is suffocating with grimy smoke, snaking around her trachea and seeping into her lungs. Conversation, laughter, music and muffled moaning wafts through the air. _

 

"I think.. I think I was. I'm not.. entirely sure, nobody said anything outward, and.." Her breath stutters as her eyes shut, the grip on her knees turning a violent shade of pain.

 

_ He holds her by the back of her neck in a vice grip, possessive, demanding. He holds her in place and forces her to halt any movement, any breath, any tremor. _

 

_ He makes her watch the girl being torn to shreds by men that will mark her until the end of her life. He makes her listen to the pleas, to the screams, ones that used to echo so deeply in her own heart before, until it turned crystal clear and invisible. _

 

_ “You watch and learn, Caseybear. There’s no one between you and this, except me.” _

 

"They didn't look okay." It comes out a pained whisper and for a flash she thinks she doesn’t deserve to sound in so much agony.

 

"What do you mean?" It comes out firm and strong, and she wishes the delicate carefulness to be back.

 

She pushes. She pushes and fights at the memories, flashbacks tearing the inside of her mind, scattering her focus, making her ears ring. 

 

"They looked hurt."

 

Casey opens her eyes. She feels pleading in her bones, earnest and pure, unable to fight the ghosts of her past.

 

But she can do one thing.

 

"I can show you where they were."

 

* * *

 

They’re silent as they ready to leave the room. Quiet shuffling, soft steps. They don’t talk between each other.

 

Casey almost feels ready to breathe, and yet she follows them, walks them out. Just a step behind. She’s not sure why, and almost feels uncomfortable with her restlessness.

 

She curls her hand around the edge of the door as David turns to her, extending his arm towards her. He holds a card in his hand.

 

“If you’re ever in trouble - call me. Anytime. I mean it.” She takes the card from his had gingerly, wraps her fingers around it. He casts a look at the bodyguard. “Especially if this fellow here gives you any trouble.”

 

She wonders whether he’s serious or joking, but doesn’t react in any way other than clutching the card against her chest.

 

The door shuts with a soft click.

 

The piece of paper burns against her heart.

 

She memorises the number on it.


	4. Survival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Survival is protecting oneself.

Casey doesn’t know if she made the right choice.

 

She thought she could handle it. She thought it went by well. She thought she swallowed those daggers and let them tear her apart, then let the holes and the gashes heal in her, all by themselves, like they always did. Like she always willed them to, without another choice.

 

But they don’t. She was wrong. She starts crumbling almost minutes after she’s left alone, clutching the card the detective gave her against her chest, like it could save her, like  _ anything  _ could save her.

 

She falls apart from one crumb to another, itching in her skin to will the memories away. Yet they fight her, fight her like she doesn’t have a choice but to submit, fight her like they never have before.

 

And it scares her. It truly does.

 

She knows she’s far away. She knows she’s virtually unreachable from him. She knows it a fact, yet she can’t fathom it; the wet sand doesn’t settle beneath the murky waters - they only give way to her cut up feet. But it hurts to walk, so she doesn’t.

 

She feels him there’s in the back of her mind. Whispering, talking to her, beckoning and taunting her, and she hears it so loud and clear it takes everything in her will to stop herself from repeating his voice:  _ your father would be disappointed in you. _

 

He’d say that, hold it over her head like the free will he never so much as gave a taste of to her, and she’d bend her bones and wings to him, all for the sake of survival. Survival. That’s what it was, survival.

 

_ “You love this, I know you do- I can  _ **_feel_ ** _ it-” _

 

The guilt hits her violently and without remorse. The betrayal, her betrayal, she knows it won’t go unpunished. He’s away, far away, she’s virtually unreachable - but she knows, he will find a way to punish her. He always does.

 

Safe isn’t a word in her vocabulary. Not the way it should be.

 

_ “You be good to me now, Caseybear. I’ll keep you safe.” _

 

A weak cry of a bird emanates outside of her window. It sounds pained.

 

* * *

 

There is no ticking in the room, but she feels time passing. Feels it in the creak of her bones, in the passing shuffling and voices behind her door, lost conversations and soft mentions of her name.

 

She finds herself alone. The beating of her heart and the solemn pace of her breathing, the only two things keeping her company.

 

It’s hard to adjust to - right until this moment, everyone hovered over her. The police, the medics, the teachers, her uncle, his “friends”. Needles beneath her feet and predatory eyes on her back followed every inch of the house she lived in, forced mechanisms and math into her every movement and breath.

 

And now there’s none of that. She’s alone. She’s blank. There’s nobody to pretend for, nobody to set a framed picture for.

 

Discomfort prickles the muscles of her shoulders. She feels tense and out of place - like a chipped cup in a set of perfect tea service. There’s searing touches and stinging voices echoing through her - back and forth, from bone to muscle to skin, and she finds herself twitching in her spot. 

 

She closes her eyes and counts her breaths, willing the pitch of his voice to exit her ears. When the silence settles, the ringing is back, permeating it, stabbing and leaving it to bleed.

 

Casey shoots to her feet, steady steps towards the door.

 

She can’t be alone. She simply can’t. She feels it, dread settling between the skin and the meat, crippling her breathing and movements; something bad will follow if she stays by herself.

 

She sees Dennis when she swings her door open, and there’s a hazy feeling of a realisation that enters her. She realises she wasn’t aware where her feet were taking her; she realises she wasn’t alone.

 

She lets it settle as she listens to the conversation the man is having with someone outside the door. She leans over, takes a peek, and sees it’s a cleaning lady.

 

She watches silently as he takes the cleaning supplies from her, then closes the door with a stern face. The man throws her a glance that looks close to apprehensive, but it’s not hostile. If anything, it’s inviting.

 

So she follows when he steps into the lounge room. She watches him, warily, as he sets the cleaning supplies at the doorway, makes his way around the room - checking the corners, the blinds, the curtains, the furniture. He touches them just slightly, a ghost more than an actual touch, watches him frown with varying intensities. 

 

Is this what a bodyguard room check looks like? Is he checking for bugs, wires? Or whatever it is that these people use.

 

She thinks, for a second, what else his duties are. Will he stay with her at all times? Will he watch her, vigilantly, just like John did when she was home? She tries to remember and recount all the bodyguards she’s seen in movies and shows, but the memories are blurry, images of burly men with stern faces and commanding voices filling her mind.

 

Well, so far, he certainly fits the type.

 

Her thoughts snap back to reality when she hears him sigh. She watches as he shakes his head, muttering to himself. It takes her a moment to discern what he said, but there’s a tinge of hysteria that enters her when she does.

 

_ “I don’t know who cleans like that.” _

 

The laughter is stuck in her throat when he turns to her, haste pace in his step, and it blanks her. It’s adrenaline, she realises after; it enters her as quickly as he turned, figure tall and towering, gaze dark. She feels it, the fright - the feeling of prey about to be hunted.

 

She flinches.

 

He halts in his step. 

 

Clears his throat, eyeing up with wariness in his irises, one she clings to with twitching fingers and shaking hands. She curls them into fists. Her heartbeat quickens and beats against her ears, a delicate drum that keeps bringing her to reality.

 

She finds herself repeating to herself he isn’t an animal. She doesn’t know it for a fact, but she tells herself that nonetheless. Perhaps because she doesn’t have any other choice.

 

“Could you pass me that?” His voice isn’t booming or stinging; it’s soft and careful, calculated and cold. He points his open palm to the supplies, and her eyes follow the line thrown by the gesture. She nods, more to herself than to him, reaching for them with hands that don’t stop shaking. 

 

Her legs feel like lead when she makes steps towards him. They’re unsure and wobbly, but he doesn’t make a note out of it. 

 

There’s a silent moment of pondering why a bodyguard might need cleaning supplies.

 

The pondering gets shut into silence as soon as he starts cleaning. Vigorously and meticulously, as if his life depended on it.

 

The previously-built hysteria crawls from her lungs to her throat, and it escapes her in a mirthless laugh. Who could have thought? A bodyguard’s function is to clean, apparently.

 

When he turns to look at her, Casey almost waits for him to throw her a look that tells she’s crazy, but sees it to be filled, shallowly, with something akin to understanding. The look on his face stings, and she immediately wishes he didn’t turn to look at her. 

 

She almost yelps in surprise when he reaches down and throws a rag towards her direction. She catches it, despite the flinch still an echo in her limbs. He inches his head towards the window, a curt nod, looking away from her just as quickly.

 

“Get your mind off things.” His voice is just as calm as when he asked her to pass the cleaning supplies, just as calculated. It’s tinged, however, with something she can’t wrap her head around.

 

She listens to his advice and sets to cleaning, instead.

 

They clean with a wordless silence settled between each other, each on their own side, moving across the room without looking and touching. It’s mechanical, cyclical; they work like an almost-well oiled machine, and she feels a certain peace to it, a type of serenity that tastes foreign on the tip of her tongue.

 

By the end of it Casey realises he was right. It feels better, somehow, quieter, the cleansing of the room washing away small bits of grime from her mind. She’s glad to have helped him, although there’s a part in her that says it’s him that helped her, instead.

 

It’s when they settle the supplies away that she sinks into the worn cushions of the couch, and she feels them give under they weight, enveloping her just slightly, just enough to let her feel supported. She tries to ease into the sensation, to rest her back against the couch, but her back stays straight and pointed, a threatening dagger at the mid-point of her spine. Her hands, a light pink shade from the chemicals, curl and uncurl around the bones of her knees, and she stares at them, lost in their conscious spasming.

 

In and out. In and out. She shoots a look at the man sitting at the other end of the room, but the look is short and cut before instinct and fear overrule her body, and she hunches, stills, casts her eyes down. 

 

She tries to reason that there’s nothing to be afraid of, yet still jumps when the man clears his throat.

 

She doesn’t look at him when he says he’s going to get some food. Shakes her head when he asks her if she needs anything else. Her nails dig into her legs and her shoulders tense when he exhales in a sigh, waiting for anything else he could say, but silence envelopes them, instead.

 

She wills herself to dare to look at him again, the glance curt and panicked. He’s sitting in a posture straight and military, arms crossed against his chest, the black shirt a stark contrast against his skin. Casey notices he’s not looking at her, but at the gap between the closed blinds, and silently, achingly wonders if he’s uncomfortable with her being here.

 

She reminds herself to breathe evenly still, but wonders how long it will take for this to disappear. How long it will take him to realise she’s not worth guarding and leave. How long until this mirage of an oasis of protection melts away, replaced by the sight of a scorching, screeching desert.

 

Her hands shake when he passes her the food, and it’s then that she realises how impossible the task of eating seems. She didn’t think of it, didn’t pay much mind to it, not until it taunted her, right in front of her eyes. 

 

She tries, no matter how hard it seems; chews, manually, pushing through physically, and feels sick, the food tasting like ash in her mouth, her jaw locking, movements slowing. She remembers, distantly, that this is how it was when her father died, her uncle taking her in on the same day.

 

Like now, she couldn't eat then and didn't for a week . She thought she’d get punished for it, thought her uncle would get mad, but it was her own spasms and tremors that forced her to choke down on food and keep herself alive.

 

It’s a beast, vicious and snarling, pushing and pulling, gnawing at you until you step back onto your feet. She’s befriended it when she was five, and hasn’t lost touch with it ever since; always pushing forward, always straining against it, always surviving. 

 

Sometimes she imagines it’s the beast that takes over, filling the skin around with smoke and ashes, that it’s the beast who takes her through the moments she scarcely remembers. The ones with blood, and weeping, and..

 

She sighs, swallowing the memory like a gulp of thick oil. It slides down her throat in satisfaction, sticking to her, tainting her from inside. The kind of taint that never goes away. Puts away the food in her hands, bidding it another battle for another day. She’s done all she could.

 

Casey notices, scarcely, Dennis glancing at her, but eases shortly when he doesn’t speak up. She thinks what he would have said if he did, and tenses up at the thought of waiting to find out, prickling at her spine, fingers curling into themselves.

 

It doesn’t take long until the feeling of worry takes over, and she decides to flee the scene.

 

“Can I leave?” She asks, unsure, voice wavering and meek, reminiscent of all the times she had to ask her uncle.

 

Air catches in her throat when she sees him tense, and the swift shock courses blank through her mind. She grasps at herself, however, fighting the panic away, pushes air back into her lungs.

 

“To my room.” She clarifies, deadpans, telling herself, yet again, there’s nothing to be afraid. The voice of reason doesn’t reach her.

 

The silence between them is thick as it hovers above them, and seems to settle to the ground when his shoulders relax. She wonders whether it’s her imagination when she sees his eyes soften.

 

“Yes.” It’s an answer that’s quiet and subtle, yet the way he says it sounds like a distant whisper, a long-lost fragment of a memory of kind eyes and voice telling her she won’t get in trouble.

 

She doesn’t linger a second longer and doesn’t cast the man a second glance as she leaves the room.

 

The wood of the door is cold on her skin as she leans her back against it, and its surface fights her in a futile fight when she slides down to the ground. 

 

The memory, no matter how soft and gentle, tears at her heart, twisting it inside out, chopping off one vessel after another. She covers herself, hair over eyes and hands over ears, as she tries to drown it out, as she fights, hopelessly, as it slowly changes form, as it slowly dissipates into poison and enters her system.

 

Her heart is not a place for kind reflections. There’s poison, wicked and potent, enough to burn every single bit of light left from her childhood.

 

And drop after drop it changes this one, as well, painting it black with vehemence, stripping it bare from its sweetness.

 

_ “You be good to me now, Caseybear.” _

 

She doesn’t need to leave. It settles now, a layer of oil on water, the realisation that the distance between them will have her unharmed. Slowly, she realises, she can deal with this. She can deal with the violating ghost of her uncle, hovering above her back, with the voice in her ears, fleeting, cold touches on her arms. He won’t hurt her here, not the way he used to.

 

She will stay here forever, if need be. This is how she will survive, from now on; rhino skin and claws for nails and posture taller than her skin allows, pushing through until there’s nowhere to push through for.

 

He won’t get her here. Not if she stays hidden and invisible.

 

Slowly, the light seeps out of the room. 

 

The knock on the door startles the girl out of her thick coat of self-preservation, but she eases soon. Uncle John never knocked.

 

She stays silent as Dennis checks the room. Checking for safety, she thinks, this time. She watches him check the window behind the blinds, and lingers on the way he doesn’t stare at her scared and trembling frame, doesn’t ask her if she’s okay, doesn’t give her looks of pity or anguish.

 

When he does look at her, it’s straight into her eye, filled with silent recognition, and there’s a wild moment where she feels like she’s looking at a reflection.

 

There’s strength coursing through his every movement as he clears the room safe, and she finds every single one soothing.

 

He bids her a soft goodnight when he leaves, one that is left unanswered. 

 

She crawls into bed ignoring the thought that it’s easier to breathe after the man has checked the room; the fact that it feels less threatening now. Curls into herself, telling herself she’s not lingering on the way he said goodnight to her; simple, one word that held no meaning, no ulterior motive. No imminent threat, or desire to scare her, to subdue her.

 

She tries to focus on the pillow, on her breathing, on the weight of the blanket; when she falls asleep, she does it to the thought of a protector in the next room, so opposite of her uncle.


End file.
